


A Little On Edge

by whaleofatime



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Regular Life AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleofatime/pseuds/whaleofatime
Summary: It’s embarrassing as all hell, to find yourself thinking “I knew it was love when you handed me a cup of hot coffee and I dropped it all over myself because I forgot I have a crap prosthetic where my right arm used to be but you didn’t even blink and just got me a bunch of tissues and made me another cup."Alternatively, graduate student Shiro's late-night adventures with 7-11 clerk Keith across 4 seasons and many cups of coffee.





	A Little On Edge

It’s embarrassing as all hell, to find yourself thinking “I knew it was love when you handed me a hot cup of coffee and I dropped it all over myself because I forgot I have a crap prosthetic where my right arm used to be but you didn’t even blink and just got me a bunch of tissues and made me another cup.”

Convenience store clerks don’t deserve the harassment of having customers coming in and falling in love, especially not at 2:30 in the morning, _especially_ especially not when the customer is Shiro and spilling the coffee has his nerves so on edge he’s on the verge of a panic attack. 

(It’s a rough night).

Keith, blessedly, is at least semi-familiar with Shiro’s trials and tribulations. Being inadvertent neighbours for the past month has helped; Shiro had been forthright and had brought a little fruit basket to his only immediate neighbour in the tiny apartment complex to apologise in advance for any strange noises that crop up in the night. Keith had said it wouldn’t be a problem;

He’s acting like Shiro isn’t a problem now. Shiro has a death grip on the half-empty cup with his left hand (his only  _good_ hand), and that seemed to inspire Keith into action. Keith pulls up the divider and tugs Shiro behind the counter, through a door, and to the informal little office space in the back. He forces Shiro into an old, squeaky office chair, and goes to rifle through his locker.

Shiro tries to focus on what he can see, tries to control his breathing, tries hard to not lose his mind. The soft whumph of something landing across his shoulders startles him a little, but it’s just Keith, laying his motorcycle jacket on Shiro.

It looks ridiculous, probably; Barbie trying to dress an Incredible Hulk doll, but the weight is reassuring, Keith’s intense stare even more so.

“Just take your time. I’m going to go restock the instant ramen, but I’ll leave the door open.”

It’s been a while since someone’s idea of helping him didn’t involve making him talk things out.

Feels warm and rich and a little strange; tastes like hot, freshly-brewed coffee and fits like an undersized jacket on an oversized man.

Barely a month into their acquaintanceship, and Shiro’s mildly overcome in the first throes of a crush.

-

They meet in spring, and a season full of Shiro stopping by the convenience store on Bad Nights and Keith stopping by his flat in the mornings with just barely out-of-date cooked foods and theirs is now quite the admirable friendship.

Keith’s got a bit of a temper, a bit of a bite, but he is unwavering and he is honest. He doesn’t ask for more than Shiro will give, doesn’t really ask for anything at all, so Shiro’s not even sure what he gets out of this relationship aside from homework help and the (questionable) privilege of having Shiro relaxed enough around him to go without his prosthetic when Keith comes over.

No looking a gift horse in the mouth, though. It’s a sweltering hot summer’s day, vacation in full-swing for most students, but Shiro’s a beleaguered graduate student. It’s noon and his room is boiling hot as he stares at his laptop and prays for some insight from the statistics gods re: some sweet, sweet data analysis.

Our Lady Of Variance chooses to answer with a different kind of variable; there’s a knock at his door, and it’s Keith. 

“You haven’t left your flat in 2 days,” the man announces matter-of-factly. “Get changed, we’re hitting the beach.”

It takes way too long for Shiro to understand what’s being said to him, and when he does it mildly horrifies him (no big deal, he’s spent much of his adult life in a constant state of mild horror). “Keith, no, buddy, I can’t get my prosthetic wet in the sea, it’s gonna rust.”

The reply is pretty much instantaneous. “Then don’t take it with you.”

That mild horror? It’s escalating. He has to be shirtless, and armless? It probably doesn’t show in his face, he’s way too good at a poker face, but his heart is pounding right there in his throat, for all to see. “But… My arm. It’s. It’s the only arm I’ve got left there.”

Keith shrugs. “I can be your right hand man.”

It’s only been 3 months, Shiro yells in his head, face completely neutral. And being his right hand has a terrible fuckin’ track record.

Breathe, Shiro, breathe. “I can’t…. Not now. Sorry, Keith.” He mourns it, mourns what might have become an almost-romantic beach date.

They stand in silence facing each other for a while, before Keith seems to figure something out. “We can break into the school swimming pool. I have a copy of the keys from when I used to work in security, you can bring your arm or you can leave it, and you can dress however you like. I don’t give a shit, but neither of us are staying in our rooms in this shitty heat. Your brain’s gonna melt right out.”

Oh, geeze. Shiro swallows a few times, because it feels like if he opens his mouth to talk right now, he’ll hurl up his heart, and not even Keith could possibly be willing to deal with him after that.

It’s a hell of an option, and Shiro finds it more and more appealing. “Would you mind if I kept a shirt on in the water?”

Keith flashes a sharp grin. “My only rule is to at least move further away if you’re about to pee in the pool.”

Shiro’s offended. “I would never!”

“That makes one of us. Now just go change already.”

It’s agony and bliss; Keith in just broad shorts, the cool chlorinated water in the heat.

Yearning’s a soppy word, but floating on his back in the pool, prosthetic safely tucked away in his bag and occasionally bumping into Keith who’s doing the same, it’s about all that Shiro can do to yearn that this easy, easy friendship continues.

-

Autumn comes, dragging in her wake his second semester. It’s off to a better start than spring; when it’s not too hot and not too cold, his stump aches less, and now that he’s gotten used to his advisor and school itself, his stress levels aren’t at ceiling-height.

He still stops by the convenience store pretty regularly, laptop in tow. He knows all of Keith’s co-workers by now, and the 3 night-time managers are all mothers trying to fit in work amongst looking after their families, and oh, how they dote.

Shiro’s not super used to it, has always been brought up to be fiercely self-reliant. Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming, because they can get really rather touchy when they’re missing their kids and Shiro’s there on a rough night looking like a soaking wet puppy, but those times Keith runs interference as best he can, once even spectacularly pulling an entire shelf’s worth of potato chips to the ground to get attention away from Shiro.

“It’s no big deal,” Keith had said. “You would have done the same for me.”

This is true, of course. They’re both students at the university nearby, and Shiro makes an effort to meet up when they have empty slots in their schedule; Keith’s finishing his undergraduate thesis and he’s still undecided between furthering his studies and getting a job, so Shiro shares what he knows as someone who’s done both. Once, when Shiro had followed Keith to the administrative office to help Keith book a meeting with the career guidance counsellor, things had gone a little bit south with the clerk in charge. The man kept insisting that Keith wasn’t eligible for the service since he was a scholarship student, and Keith kept getting increasingly agitated as the clerk harangued him in front of the entire office for not reading the fine print in the student’s guide.

It probably wouldn’t have come to blows, but it might have come to words that could land Keith in hot water, so Shiro does the only thing that without a doubt can de-escalate any situation.

He’d reached under his coat with his left hand, fiddling with straps and ports, and just as the arguing voices reached their peak, he unhooked his prosthetic and let it slide right out his sleeve, landing on the ground with a heavy thump.

Shiro hadn’t freaked out, not even a little. The thick fabric of the coat kept the sleeve’s shape; as long as he tucked the end into his pant pocket, he wouldn’t even need to re-attach his arm before he can get out of here. So making a face that was mildly aghast, he had looked down at his prosthetic and convincingly warbled his voice as he exclaimed (way too loudly even in his own opinion), “Oh my god.”

The clerk had echoed it, but Keith was already bending down to grab Shiro’s arm (oh, were it but attached to his body!), turning around and brandishing it like a club of guilt at the man on the other side of the counter. “Are you just going to let me schedule the meeting, or would it be better for me to take my friend out of here,” he growled as he waved the arm a tad dramatically, “but then leave him one hand down just so that I can come back and argue with you some more?”

Paler ‘n a ghost, the man had handed over a form to Keith along with a time slot, and Keith just barely deigned to thank him for it. Keith had filled it in and slid the paper back, before tugging Shiro out, still techinically holding Shiro’s hand.

They’d gotten as far as the low-key haunted and consistently empty bathrooms on one of the upper floors before Keith had let go of of Actual Shiro, to then fully wrap his arms around Arm Shiro and proceed to laugh so hard Shiro actually got worried.

“What the hell was that? You some kind of gecko? Sense danger and then drop a limb? Fuck.” Keith had had tears in his eyes by then.

Shiro had smiles, still a little jealous of his prosthetic. “Guess that’s my Halloween outfit all figured out.”

In summary, there is not a detachable limb nor a bag of junk food that they would not drop to the ground for each other. Shiro’d take a hit for Keith, probably. This close to the edge of his terrible, all-consuming feelings that he’s been skirting for months now, Shiro thinks that for Keith, Keith who’s always got his back and will always hide away one 4-cheese macaroni gratin for him to have for a late-night snack, there isn’t much he wouldn’t take.

He’s a hopeless man dancing on a thin wire, Shiro thinks, and he’s a terrible dancer.

Hopefully, desperation can keep him going so that Keith doesn’t find out that Shiro’s a barely-controlled no-good hound dog, and oh, the leash is fraying terribly.

-

Winter is rough, cold, unpleasant, all the usual adjectives used by people who aren’t her biggest fans. Shiro knows that logically his joints can’t possibly be getting iced over, it’s not even dipped below 0 yet, but it’s miserable. 

He’s miserable, and not a heavy wool scarf and warm gloves and long johns under his pants help him leave his winter funk. His therapist says it might be Seasonal Affective Disorder, but Shiro’s got enough regular sad on his plate that unless pushed, he won’t be admitting to having SAD on top of it all too. 

It drags on him like the night keeps hold of the sun; lingering, holding him down long enough that everything’s off-kilter. In a distant sort of way, Shiro knows he’s getting stressed over due dates, and that he’s fundamentally a man who needs sun on his face to feel that everything’s going to be okay.

Shiro’s as calm and measured as he can manage on his convenience store runs, but this is his first winter on his own sans his right arm but plus hideous scars, and he’s just constantly on edge.

Keith had kept his silence through November and most of December, only insisting that they meet for Christmas day.

Shiro’s grateful, because the holidays are frankly an extra type of awful when you’re alone and unpleasantly sad, but Shiro’s irritated because he just wants to lie under his heated blanket in his room and stare at the ceiling.

Keith had kept on insisting, and it’s such a rare sight that he finally relents. Keith was usually happy to support Shiro even through bad decisions, but he had put his foot down when in a fit of all-encompassing misery Shiro had said he was going to quit school and maybe just work at the convenience store too until he died (Keith had called up Shiro’s therapist after ‘comandeering’ Shiro’s phone, and that was how Shiro had a 2 hour long conversation with Doctor Takizawa in the backroom of a 7-11 at half past midnight), and he’d put his foot down now too.

So Shiro had forced himself to clean and neaten up his house, good enough for company, and even makes the effort to pick up a little Christmas cake, with a log house made of chocolate. The candles cheer him up, even if the dark sky outside at just 5 damn p.m. gets to him. He’s making tea when Keith lets himself in with the spare key, holding a large box in his hands. “I have a present for you,” Keith announces, before he’s even taken off his shoes.

It’s a sweet enough a moment that Shiro manages to pull up a smile, all the way from who even knows where, to tell Keith thank you. They head to the main living space, and Shiro pours them tea.

Music plays in the background, Shiro leaving his Youtube playlist running. It’s mostly soft folk, good for meditation, good for winding down when he comes back from exerting himself at the gym. They both just listen in pleasant silence, getting through their cake, before Keith starts getting antsy and none-too-gently starts poking Shiro’s leg with his present.

“All right, all right,” Shiro relents, finally, pushing over his own gift to Keith. “I’ll open it now, okay?” It amuses him to find that the gift appears to be wrapped in about 2 dozen flattened paper packages that were meant to eventually house nuggets. He tears it open, to find….. a massive…. light…..thing.

“Keith?”

“It’s a light therapy box. I checked the internet and it said if you’re sad, uh, S-A-D SAD, getting more light might help. The site said you should figure out how to use it with advice from your doctor, but it might be good for you.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say. Keith’s a goddamn star, and he’s gotten him a literal box filled with light. It’s hard to resist cradling the light box like a sweet, awkward puppy, and he only barely manages to ignore his urges. “You shouldn’t have, Keith, this looks really expensive.”

Keith just rolled his eyes, tearing open his own present and making a deep, rumbling satisfied sound to find a pair of beautiful leather driving gloves, so that Keith can have a winter-version of his go-to fingerless gloves that always threaten frostbite at this time of year. The gloves are jet-black with red trim, made of leather so soft Shiro had almost wanted a pair for himself. “I wanted to. If I thought it would help, I’d buy you light every year in winter.” He pulls on the gloves to see how they fit, and it’s some Excalibur-and-Arthur bullshit, honestly, how perfect they are.

Keith reaches across the little table they’re seated at, to hold Shiro’s jaw between his leather-clad hands. “You’re worth doing these things for,” he says slow and clear, like Shiro’s a little dim and Keith’s just trying to make him understand.

He’ll beat himself up for it later, Shiro really will, but his reaction to the stern/soft touch on his face had left him so painfully keyed-up it made his head spin as he leaned more heavily into the touch.

Keith is so close, and so far. The light box is heavy in his lap, but Keith’s touch is so gentle he’s quite sure he’s losing his mind.

Shiro’s going to do it, he’s really going to do it, he’s going to tell Keith now and settle it once and for all!

Dancing man’s _sick_ of the edge.

Shiro pulls Keith’s hand further up his face, so that he can press it against his cheek and take pleasure in the touch.

It feels like something’s on the edge of happening, and Shiro just…wants to lean in and-

Suddenly Keith’s pulling away, cursing and patting himself down for his suddenly-screaming phone. He’s brusque, borderline-rude to whoever’s calling, and when he hangs up, his scowl is deeper than trenches.

“You okay?” Shiro asked, having swallowed his confession. 

“3 people called in sick today, and they wanted me to come in half a shift earlier to deal with the rush of people doing last-minute shopping. I’m sorry, Shiro, I have to go.”

Keith looks as mournful as Shiro feels, but Shiro just shakes his head and smiles. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I can put the cake in the fridge and we can have the rest of it when you have time. You should go and get ready, Keith.”

Keith still looks conflicted, and if this were a romance novel, Shiro would’ve described it as a man torn between desire and duty.

But it’s not a romance novel, unfortunately, and really is a face touch that much weirder than their extremely frequent shoulder pats? (And for a couple of university students, Shiro is high-key sure they both take duty way too seriously).

Shiro shouldn’t put Keith’s actions into romancin’ words. It’ll be okay if all he can manage is a quiet long-lasting unrequited love as Keith’s friend; he refuses to be selfish.

So he smiles and waves as Keith heads to the door, almost late, but not so late that he can’t duck in to give Shiro  a hug. 

“Make sure you talk about that light thing with your doctor. And don’t work so hard, it’s Christmas.”

“Tell that to yourself, bud, I’m just going to be hanging out under the kotatsu and eat instant ramen.”

Keith snorts, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Don’t go too wild.”

“No promises. I get crazy when I eat too much salt.”

Shoes on, Keith’s got his hand on the front door. When he turns to look at Shiro, it’s with an expression so ridiculously fond Shiro reflexively tries to fold his arms, shield-like.

(He can’t, he hasn’t actually let go of the light).

“Come by later. I’ll make you the last Christmas special peppermint latte we have in the store.”

Great, and also could you please touch my face again? Shiro does not say. He just goes “I will. Thanks for everything, Keith.”

“Embarrassing,” Keith says, but he still springs for another hug, and Shiro figures that like it or not, if Keith keeps on being this unbearably good to him, the confession’s going to happen. He can’t really hold it in anymore, regardless of his intentions.

It’s gonna happen.

Just not today.

-

Things come full-circle on one day in early Spring, more or less. Shiro’s stressed with reports, and the stress agitates him into, funnily enough, even greater heights of stress, and he just needs to get out. So he stumbles out of his flat, still in pyjamas because at this point there is nothing left to him that could surprise anybody on the night shift.

When the chime rings to announce that a customer’s come in, nobody looks surprised that it’s Shiro in fuzzy fleece pyjamas and a warm overcoat. Shiro heads straight for Keith’s counter, and they don’t even say ‘Hello’, because Keith’s already turned around to get him a cup of coffee.

“Here,” Keith says. “You’re not looking good.”

“Do I ever?” Shiro asks, reaching for it-

-and knocking it all over the counter with the goddamn hunk of shitty plastic that’s supposed to mean that he’s okay that he’s lost his arm but obivously it’s not because he can’t really even type with it and he can’t even grab a cup of goddamn coffee without spilling it like some child and-

Keith clapping Shiro’s face between his hands brings him out mid-spiral, and Shiro comes back into himself, unpleasantly slow. “Sorry,” he forces out, because he really is. The counter’s going to smell of coffee again, and there’s already a little bit of a stain on the cash register from the last time (has it actually been a year already?)

Keith doesn’t let him go. “3 days ago, a drunk office worker came in here, asked for help looking for the hangover meds, and then threw up on my shoes. Coffee’s fine. You’re fine. Okay?”

He really isn’t, Shiro knows he isn’t, but Keith does make him feel better, that one’s beyond a shadow of a doubt. Keith’s still holding his face, in a death-grip but gentle, and the only sound is the steady drip-drip-drip of coffee on counter becoming coffee on ground.

Keith has that frown on his face, the one that means that he’s unsatisfied with something and he’ll be working to make it better some way, somehow. 

Keith already really helps to make Shiro better, that’s also something Shiro doesn’t doubt. He settles a little more into himself, into feeling Keith’s warmth leeching in through his cheeks (boy always runs so warm, even in the dead of winter), and he controls his breathing until his panic isn’t controlling him.

“Thanks, Keith.” Shiro figures he’s as good as he’s going to get for tonight, and tries to move back from this half-lean across the counter.

Keith doesn’t let go.

“Uhm, buddy?”

“What?”

“I’m all right now, and we’ve gotta clean up this mess I made.” 

Keith doesn’t even glance down. “That can wait, and this is nice anyways.”

That certainly is true; it’s so nice that Shiro’s beginning to suspect that if there’s a kink for having one’s face touched, he’s definitely got it. This is way too nice, and he sighs a little, settling lower and closing his eyes.

They startle open when he feels something gently bump against his head, to see that Keith’s also leaned in, now insistently pressing their foreheads together even as he continues to stare at Shiro, trying to figure out if Shiro’s really okay or not.

All at once, it’s too much. His hand’s shaking, as Shiro rests them over Keith’s, nerves shot to hell and flying on adrenaline. He’s terrified, but he’s hit his limit and there’s nothing left to give. “I. I’ve got something I need to tell you, Keith, and I need you to know that I don’t have any expectations, or anything, just, I won’t hold it against you if you turn me down. Okay?”

Keith nods, mashing their bangs together. “You can do it. I’ve got you, so c'mon, just come on.”

And Shiro does.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Kinktober 2017, for the kink Edgeplay. I too am a harrassed student, and the clerks (plural in my case) at all the nearby convenience stores have saved my life maybe 7 times this semester.


End file.
